


Cleaved

by Crollalanza



Series: Iwaoi - Philos Series [4]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, NSFW, Sexual Content, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 21:54:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2483762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crollalanza/pseuds/Crollalanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a serious injury scuppers his sports assisted place at university, Hajime Iwaizumi knows his only chance is to study for better grades. But frustrated at being cooped up all day, he's unable to string together a sentence, let alone an already overdue essay.<br/>Then Oikawa turns up, and Hajime knows he has no hope in hell of ever making the grade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cleaved

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short ficlet follow-up to Philos, so the same Iwaoi-verse applies. 
> 
> This was also inspired by artwork from the talented Viria. The quote at the beginning is from A Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller, which I plundered from Niki/boxofwonder/citrusfleugel's blog.
> 
> FINALLY, the word 'cleave' has always interested me. Here's a definition from vocabulary.com
> 
> 'Cleave, a verb, has two very different meanings. It can describe cutting or splitting something apart with a sharp instrument, or — oddly enough — it can describe sticking to something like glue.'

_“That is—your friend?”_

  
_“Philtatos,” Achilles says, sharply. Most beloved._

 

The page was white again. The words he’d typed deleted with a savage stab with his forefinger, leaving the page clear. He groaned and stared back at the screen, willing the sentences to form before his eyes, willing his brain to work.

_(“Iwa-chan, you can borrow my essay. You only have to ask.”_

_“Yours was shit, Oikawa. And will you STOP calling me that.”)_

Picking up the book, he re-read the relevant passages, took three steadying breaths, and then faced the blank page in front of him. He knew what to write, he had a plan, the lack of words meant nothing, except that he was free to start again.

Free, that was a laugh. He’d never felt more confined, stuck in this room, stuck at his desk, unable to move too far without help.

And Hajime didn’t want help. Not for a single fucking minute of a single fucking hour of a single fucking day.

He could get to the toilet, and he could shuffle to the kitchen to make a drink, but carrying a mug back to his room, while on crutches, had proved impossible, which meant he had to sit on one of the uncomfortable kitchen chairs to drink it and make uncomfortable conversation with his mum. Or no conversation at all which was even more uncomfortable.

“Mum?” he called.

There was no answer. He tried again, but she must have gone out, probably to escape his moods. Or one of _her_ moods, because now the euphoric relief they’d felt that his injury was fixable, they’d sunk back into their normal pattern of yelling at each other.

At least she tried to keep a lid on her temper, but Hajime knew he was the very worst of patients, driving everyone away.

_(“Iwa-chan. I’ll come over, if you like. I have nothing better-”_

_“Fuck off! I have work to do.”_

_“I could help.”_

_“YOU? HELP?  Since when? This is an essay I have to write. I need a fucking top grade, not just a pass mark like you barely scrape every week!”_

_“RUDE! You should try charming your sensei, Iwa-chan. She might up your grade if you flutter those stubby eyelashes at her.”_

_“THIS IS A FUCKING JOKE TO YOU, ISN’T IT, ASSKAWA. A FUCKING JOKE!”)_

 

Oikawa had hung up. He’d clicked off his phone, and Hajime had been left shouting curses to no one. He’d never hung up on him before, always wanting the last word, delighting in Hajime losing his shit and throwing his phone across the room.

But he’d been losing his shit with far more regularity these past few weeks, and it was no wonder he was stuck here alone on a Saturday afternoon with no one to call.

Maybe that was a good thing. He had to get on with the essay. Not only was it overdue, he needed a decent grade. Aobajousai had made every allowance for him when he’d been stuck in hospital, but he was out now, out and supposedly recovering. The fact that he was hobbling around on crutches didn’t affect his brain, they’d said, and there were to be no more passes on overdue work, especially as now he didn’t have club activities to distract him.

 _Right!_   he thought decisively. _Let’s get on with this fucking thing._

Trying a different tack, because he knew what daunted him was a blank page, he started to type anything. He stopped short of keysmashes, but began typing nonsense, stupid words, silly phrases that led to idiotic sentences.

‘Seijou Seijou Seijou’. He grinned, and hammered out more words. ’Seijou are the best. Go go Seijou. Seijou-jou jouuuuu. Matsukawaaaaa, hanimakiiii, kin-kin-kindaichi, kuniminininiiiiiii. OUKAWA TAKES IT UP THE ASSSSSSS. ASSkawa.’

Hearing the front door latch, he stopped typing, but still grinning, called out in a conciliatory tone (because he had been a git), “Mum, any chance of a coffee?”

She didn’t reply, but he heard her clattering around in the kitchen, so he settled back in his chair, wincing a little as he stretched out his leg.

“Coffee,” said someone cheerfully, opening the door without bothering to knock. “I added sugar and milk.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Making you coffee, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa said as if explaining something to a very small child. “And that’s not a very polite way to greet a guest.”

“How did you get in?”

Oikawa smirked, and held out a front door key. “I met your mother. She told me you were throwing tantrums again and thought I might be able to calm you down.”

“Wind me up more like!” he snapped, wondering what on earth had possessed his mum, unless it was a twisted type of revenge. “Anyway, don’t you have practise?”

For a fleeting moment, Oikawa’s infuriating smile drooped. He placed both mugs of coffee on the desk, sliding onto coasters. Perching on the edge, he flicked through Hajime’s book. “I was going to play a set with the university guys, but they’re ... busy.”

“Huh? They cancelled on you. Why?”

Oikawa’s eyes narrowed. “Small matter of the town turning out to wish Miyagi Prefecture’s representatives all the best at Nationals,” he muttered sullenly.

“Ah. I forgot.”

“Lucky you,” he murmured, then something seemed to flick inside of him, and he turned on his full power-watt smile. “So, Iwa-chan, just why are you being so rude to your lovely mother? Don’t deny it. She had that same stormy expression on her face as you have right at this moment.” He laughed idly. “I’m not sure whether to be insulted or gratified that you’re vile to other people.”

“I wasn’t rude to her... well, I didn’t mean to be but she ... she won’t stop going on about fucking school work, and my fucking grades and how now I can’t get the-“

He closed his eyes, desperate to hide the sudden furious tears that were welling inside of him. He’d had a guaranteed place at university. Scholarship, too, based on his sports ability, his partnership with Oikawa. The plan to hit Tokyo hadn’t just been a dream, but a very real opportunity.

“She’s worried about you,” Oikawa said, sounding sympathetic.

Hajime glanced up at him, eyeing him suspiciously. “Why are you being reasonable?”

“She told me you’ve been struggling with that essay,” Oikawa said, blithely ignoring the question. “I did finish that last week, so do you want my help, or not?”

“I don’t need your help!” Hajime exclaimed. “Look, thanks for the coffee, but I need to get on. I’ve made a start now, and I want to get it finished so just... bugger off, will you?”

Oikawa let out a sigh. Fixing an almost petulant gaze on Hajime, he leant over him and flicked the mouse. Hajime’s screen flickered back into life.

 “You’ve spelt my name wrong, I’m hurt,” Oikawa said dryly, without smiling. His fingers floated over the backspace button, but then he thought better of it, instead tapping Hajime lightly on the cheek. “Sensei is not going to give you a good mark for this, Iwa-chan.”

 “I went blank,” he muttered, turning away. “I’d just deleted a page of utter crap, and was stuck. This is like ... I dunno ... an exercise to free my brain cells.  Stress relief.”

“Stress relief. Interesting,” Oikawa murmured.

Hajime flushed. He didn’t comment, but reached across to pick up his coffee. His hand brushed against Oikawa’s arm. Brief contact. Nothing to it. Nothing at all. But he flinched.

Then Oikawa smiled. “You _are_ tense, aren’t you, Iwa-chan.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? Don’t you find nicknames endearing?” He leant forwards, staring straight into Hajime’s eyes. “What do you call me? Apart from Asskawa!”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Oikawa laughed. “Not very endearing at all. Hmm, maybe, I should get you to call me something nicer. What do you say?”

“Go away,” Hajime replied, trying to sound firm, but he could feel his throat constricting as Oikawa began to lick his upper lip. “Oikawa, g-get the f-fuck out of here. I’m b-busy.”

“No, you’ve been at this essay all day and all you’ve done is write nonsense.” He studied the words again. “‘Oukawa ‘- I take it that’s me - ‘takes it up the ass.’” He chuckled and gave Hajime a ghost of a wink. “Got something on your mind, have you?”

“Stop this.”

“What if I said no?” Oikawa whispered. He was so close now, that Hajime could see the bow of his upper lip, the way it elongated when he smiled.  How his lips were now pouting as he touched them to Hajime’s brow, then pulled away. And now Oikawa was close, he could see darker shadows under his eyes.

Sighing regretfully, because fuck knows he wanted him, Hajime pecked him  on the cheek. “I can’t do anything. My leg is fucked, Oikawa. Hobbling to the bed is painful, okay? Let alone anything more ... uh ... strenuous.”

“How about you don’t move at all,” Oikawa said very, very slowly, his voice thrumming into Hajime’s neck.

“Oika-”

“Call me Tooru.”

“What?”

“Call me by my name. Or Tooru-chan. Go on.”

“No.” He pushed on his chest. “Go away, Oikawa!”

But Oikawa had slid off the desk and was gripping his shoulders. “Call me  ... Tooru-chan.”

“Oik - Oh, what are you-“ He broke off because Oikawa’s thumb was caressing his cheek. A smile playing on his lips, a glint in his eyes that screamed mischief, he placed his knee between Hajime’s legs, pressing it onto his good thigh, and all the while, his eyes never left Hajime’s face.

“What’s my name?”

“Oikawa. Now go,” he said.

“Wrong answer,” he murmured.

 _Call him Tooru and get it over with!_ Hajime snapped at himself. But there was something potent about not speaking the name. Something highly satisfying about not giving Oikawa what he wanted.

“Oikawa,” he repeated.

“Now, now, don’t tease, Iwa-chan. You know you can’t win.”

“Asskawa,” Hajime muttered. “Go home.”

Oikawa released him. Hajime snorted.

“Giving up? That’s quick, even for you,” he mocked. “Now, thanks for the coff-”

“Who said I’d given up?” In one fluid movement, he dropped to his knees. His hands splayed out on Hajime’s thighs, palms warm through the denim of his jeans. “Say my name.”

“Go home,” he replied, leaning forward.

But Oikawa stayed where he was. His hands began to creep upwards. Hajime refused to look away, knowing the power struggle began now. He wouldn’t blink, wouldn’t swallow, wouldn’t make any sound that could persuade Oikawa he felt anything pleasurable.

“Won’t work,” he muttered when Oikawa slid the fingers of his left hand between his legs. “Give up now.”

“I’ve not even started.” He arched one eyebrow and pressed down with the heel of his hand. “You might tell me you’re not interested, but your cock is saying something else, Iwa-chan.”

Swallowing, he had to force himself not to bite his lip as Oikawa increased the pressure. Perhaps he should plead to his better nature. “Oikawa, _please_ , I need to start this essay.”

“You know what to sa - aay ...”

Fuck that! Since when had Oikawa had a better nature!

“How about I smack you in the fucking –ahh!”

He gasped. Oikawa’s fingers were tugging at his fly buttons, popping them open, even as Hajime felt himself get even harder under his touch. In a matter of seconds, he’d unbuckled the belt and unbuttoned Hajime’s jeans.

“Oikawa-“

“Wrong answer.”

With a wicked grin, he rucked up Hajime’s shirt, exposing his stomach, and then pouted his mouth onto his skin. His teeth began to nuzzle, nipping along the waistband of his boxers, and then he swirled his tongue.

Hajime wriggled on the chair, all pretence at disinterest utterly broken, especially when Oikawa hooked his thumbs into his boxer shorts and tugged them down to his knees.

“What’s my name, Iwa-chan?” he whispered.

“Shut up.”

“No ... tell me...” And now his hands were back in action, gripping Hajime’s cock, but lightly, and not moving. With great deliberation, Oikawa parted his lips, but just before his mouth made contact, he halted.

Hajime could only stare, could only feel Oikawa’s warm breath, could only imagine the sensation of his soft moist lips and bewitching tongue that could and would tease and consume him.

“What shall it be?”

“Uh ....” He tried to form a plan in his head, but Oikawa’s grip, tenuous at best, was loosening, and if he didn’t do or say something now, then his humiliation would be complete. Oikawa wouldn’t leave, but he’d watch and smirk, perhaps finish his coffee, staying well out of hitting distance.

“C-Call me.”

“Hmm?”

“Hajime. Call me Hajime, Oikawa. You say it first.”

“Tut tut. Incorrect, but interesting.” His grip tightened. “Maybe I should have a little more fun with you. Would you like that?”

He tried to shrug, to feign a complete lack of interest, but Oikawa was wise to him, and Hajime had never been good at hiding his emotions. Oikawa’s knowing brown eyes stared back at him, and then he bowed his head back down and began to lick.

“Ha – Ha- Haj- Iwa-chaann,” he said, his voice sing-song as he started to giggle.

“You bastard!”

“Say the word, Iwa-chan...”  Oikawa chirped.

“To- Too-”

Oikawa’s mouth parted. His teeth began to nuzzle, a slight gnaw on the head of his cock. And Hajime groaned, the excruciating pressure of nipping teeth, contrasting with the soft, wet flesh of Oikawa’s lips, driving him further to tipping point.

“Too-”

Sliding his mouth further down the shaft, now Oikawa's tongue started to flick, side-to-side, in circles, up and down, deft, teasing, insistent.

“Gah, no,” Hajime gasped, and with supreme effort pushed him away.

He released him. His eyes narrowed a touch, and then he turned away.

“Oikawa ... I ...” Hajime sought for an explanation. This was stupid. A word, a simple word between them, and it wasn’t as if he’d never said his name before, but this battle of wills, this ongoing need to defeat the other, cleaved them to and apart with unerring regularity.

Oikawa reached for his drink, took a long, slow swallow, and eyed Hajime with something approaching derision.  “Iwai... zumi. I haven’t finished yet.”

Swooping down, he fastened his lips around Hajime’s cock and started to suck, a slow insistent tug of air and pressure, mouth and moisture. Hajime groaned, the heat from Oikawa’s drink permeating through his tongue, shocking him, yet transporting him far higher than he’d thought humanly possible.

“Say my name,” Oikawa hissed.

He was bucking now, the jar to his injured knee not registering, as Oikawa sucked and teased and licked and nuzzled, his fingers sliding around to grip Hajime’s buttocks, to dig into the firm flesh.

“Iwa-chan.”

“To-Too-Too-” He felt the pressure decrease; his fingers gripped Oikawa’s head, tangling in his hair.  And although he knew he’d lost. That Oikawa would no doubt sneer, disengage himself and walk away, he groaned, “Nooo! Too-ru. Tooru. Tooru -CHAN.”

Oikawa sucked harder. His lips ran up and down, tongue insinuating, teeth almost at the point of biting. And there was no escape now. No point in faking the sensation burning and rising inside of him.  “Fuck, Fuck. FUCK!”

With a cat that had got the cream type smile (which he had, in a way) Oikawa rocked back on his heels, his hands now sliding upwards to rest on his waist as he kissed Hajime’s thighs.“Ha –Ha –”

“You fucker!” he gasped

“Haj – im- e...” Oikawa murmured. “How did I do?”

“You were fucking perfect. As per fucking usual,” Hajime retorted. But there was no violence in his words. Instead an overwhelming sense of peace waved over him.  He leant forwards and enveloped Oikawa in his arms, his fingers caressing the silken hair. “Thank you... Tooru.”

Oikawa shifted his position, staring up at Hajime, a frown creasing his brow. “Don’t you dare go sentimental on me now, Iwaizumi-san. Now I’ve taken care of your stress, you have an essay to write.”

“You prick!“

Getting to his feet, Oikawa ruffled Hajime’s hair, the gesture at once supportive and yet there was an implicit order attached. “I do not intend going to university without you. You need not just good but top grades, and I’m going to make sure you get them.” He paused and slipped his hand down Hajime’s chin, tilting his face up so they locked looks.  “By any means possible.”

His breath back to normal, his clothes back in place, Hajime turned to his computer. Oikawa took his mug and lounged on the bed, clearly not about to leave until the essay was finished.

“Oikawa?”

“Mmm?”

“What... What if ...” He struggled to form the words. “What if I don’t make it? If even the best grades aren’t good enough?”

Oikawa drained his coffee. “When we’re in match and the unexpected happens, we change our plan. This is no different. You _will_ make it because our last match together is not going to be that one we lost, Iwa-chan.”

 


End file.
